


A Christmas Killing

by JohnlockDragon (DearDarling)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Crime Scenes, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock Party, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:02:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2642579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearDarling/pseuds/JohnlockDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John could not help but admire the curve of Sherlock’s lean body as he leant over the corpse."<br/>A murder, and on Christmas eve too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas Killing

Sherlock lent over the corpse lying on the cold alleyway floor, closely inspecting the victims fingertips. They obviously had a nervous disposition - their nails where ragged; torn in torment and fear - so it seemed highly unusual for such an individual to travel down an alleyway alone. John could not help but admire the curve of Sherlock’s lean body as he leant over the corpse, the way his hips swayed slightly from side to side in a hypnotic motion as he inspected the body. Sherlock paused, thousands of theories flitting through his mind.

“John, as flattered as I am to have you staring at my behind, this is a crime scene, and I do require your professional opinion.” John scowled as Sherlock smirked up at him.

“I wasn’t…” He began, but it was futile to even attempt to argue with Sherlock Holmes.

“Cause of death?” Sherlock enquired. John knelt down next to the body.

“Likely drug induced, the injuries inflicted are shallow, unlikely to kill and appear to have been inflicted after the time of death. There is little evidence of struggle, suggesting the victim was already intoxicated and unable to fight back.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock replied, proud smiles hidden behind pursed lips. “And the attacker knew the victim.”

John looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“They were a nervous individual, mistrusting, suspicious. They would not have entered the alley alone; they were accompanied by someone they trusted. A friend who they trusted enough to follow into an alley would be unlikely to leave them under attack and not report the event to the police.”

Sherlock stood up abruptly. “And on Christmas eve too.”

“There’s no rest for the wicked.” John murmured, as Sherlock turned to face him, his eyebrows knitted together in mild confusion.

“John, sleep deprivation is most commonly caused by stressors, be that chronic or acute, and emotional events. One who can be considered truly “wicked” is unlikely to of been affected by any of these factors, so they are no less able to rest than any other individual.”

John rolled his eyes, pulling Sherlock towards him and briefly pressing their lips together. “It’s an expression you idiot.” He whispered with a grin.

***

Sherlock turned to leave the alley way, eyes flitting down the street in search of a cab. Johns fingers quickly tapped a text to Lestrade, informing him of recent events as a cab pulled up at the curb. Sherlock pulled open the door, motioning for John to climb inside. “After you.” He spoke with a smirk. John rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to make a sarcastic comment. He clambered inside the cab, Sherlock taking the opportunity to check out his behind. John- at once realising the direction in which Sherlock’s eyes had drifted- wiggled his hips from side to side. Sherlock – of course- kept his composure, but John could see the slight tension in his neck. 

“Where to?” The cabby interrupted the moment. 

“Baker Street.” Sherlock replied.

“What about the case?” John murmured.

“Simple. Experimentation on a night out. Nothing special. The trust of a nervous individual delayed me. They were already relatively intoxicated on entering the alley. Evidence of trips near the entrance. Graham can take it.” Sherlock spoke with rapid precision. 

“You mean Greg.”

“Of course.”

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock smirked. 

*** 

A short while later the cab pulled up outside their home in Baker Street. John handed a £20 note to the driver as both men slid out of the cab. They quickly strode across the street, eager to reach the warmth of the flat. Sherlock smoothly slid the key into the lock with familiar precision, turning it with frosty fingers. They stomped up the stairs, shouting out a greeting to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock walked straight into the flat, tossing his scarf onto the armchair. John coughed. Sherlock turned around to find him leaning against the door frame, looking expectantly at the mistletoe hanging above his head. 

Two weeks previously, Sherlock had been mocking the use of mistletoe as an object of romance and affection. It was after all, a parasite, and had evolved as a symbol of luck as a result of the belief that it offended the old gods, showing your favour of the new. As neither he nor John believed in new or old gods; luck; or any form of suspicious nonsense, it was a thoroughly irrational practise. 

But that was before John had bought a sprig of the festive plant into their flat and hung it above their heads. Now Sherlock fully understood its potential, and intended to take full advantage of the festive tradition. Smiling, he ambled over towards John, rapping his arms around his waist, pressing their lips gently together. John, leaning in, deepened the kiss, running his hands through Sherlock’s soft hair; pushing their bodies together, running his tongue over those talented lips. Sherlock pressed Johns back against the door frame, making him as responsive as a violin under his practised hands, moving to pull Johns jumper off over his head. John gasped when Sherlocks fingers grazed his skin.

“Your fingers are cold.” John moaned.

Sherlock grinned. “Help me warm them up then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about the crap title.  
> Comments?


End file.
